SONNET 120
Is this where, without work, your nothing? May day eve
Turned Sunday glory bowed, glassy-eyed stale-faced stunt.
Listlessly; oh, you macabre lot and your deceived,
That work will set you free, that disconnected blunt
Of an image down to pots of wilted basil
In the shadow of morning light. O'er the landscape
Of the sun past the fountain of life, one riddle
To master them all which adventurer undrapes
A poisonous stream am immune to and unweary.
An axis bodies go at turn of time's clock flares
One land, one labor, one sanctuary
Glowed which harbors well and secrets we share,
Like aging roses do at each planet's twilight;
Bungle words and o'erused floss if nature's to fight.
